Margaret Weis - Rage of the Dragon

Bjorn seemed to pray in earnest; Erdmun prayed, Skylan was sure, because he was hedging his bets. Farinn, the youngest of them all, looked as if he prayed fervently through lips that trembled.

Farinn is afraid of death, Skylan realized. And he imagines he is alone in his fear. I must remember to give him some task to keep him occupied.

The ship was quiet, the only sounds the waves slapping against the hull and the murmurs of men praying. Wulfe, the fae child, son (so he claimed) of the daughter of the Faerie Queen, sidled up to Skylan and announced in a loud voice, “Treia murdered Keeper.”

“Shut up!” Skylan clapped his hand over Wulfe’s mouth, but he was too late. Aylaen turned to stare at the boy in shock.

“What do you mean?” She looked at Skylan. “What does he mean?”

“He’s just talking. He doesn’t know anything,” Skylan said, gripping Wulfe by the arm.

“I do, too,” said Wulfe defiantly. “Treia poisoned him. I’ll tell you how. She gave him a potion and told him it would help-Ouch!”

Wulfe glared at Skylan indignantly and rubbed his head. “You hit me.”

“Because you tell tales,” Skylan said. “Don’t pay any attention to him, Aylaen. He’s crazy. He thinks he talks to dryads-”

“Does he also think he can turn himself into a man-beast?” Aylaen retorted. “Because he can.”

Skylan opened his mouth and closed it. There was no denying that. They had both been witness to the startling transformation. One moment a scrawny boy of about eleven years had been standing before them and the next moment he was a yellow-eyed, sharp-fanged wolf.

“Tell me the truth about Keeper, Skylan,” said Aylaen.

“He died,” said Skylan. “He just died.”

Aylaen shook her head and then she vanished. Wulfe vanished. The mast behind Skylan vanished. The dragonhead prow above him vanished. Fog, thick, gray, greasy smoke-tinged fog rolled down from the heavens and engulfed them in a blinding cloud.

Skylan could see nothing for the thick mist that floated before his eyes. He knew he was standing on the deck of his ship only because he could feel it solid beneath his feet. He couldn’t see the deck, he couldn’t see his feet. He had to hold his hand close to his face to see it. He was reminded of the terrifying journey he had made on the ghost ship, haunted by the draugr of his dead wife, Draya. He wondered if he was the only person on board the Venjekar ; he had to swallow twice before he could force his voice to work.

“Aylaen!” he called.

“Here!” she gasped, somewhere to his right.

“The rest of you shout out,” Skylan ordered.

One by one they all replied-from Sigurd’s deep bass to Wulfe’s shrill, excited yelp.

“Aylaen, ask the Dragon Kahg if he can see.” She was a Bone Priestess, the only person on board who could commune with the dragon.

“Kahg is as blind as the rest of us,” Aylaen reported. She paused a moment, then said wryly, “The dragon tells me you did not pray for a miracle. You asked Torval for a favor. The Dragon Kahg says you have it. The fog blankets the ocean, blinds our enemies. Make the best of it.”

Skylan almost laughed. A thick, blinding, soul-smothering fog wasn’t exactly the favor he’d had in mind, but he’d take it. The Dragon Kahg slowed the ship’s progress through the sullenly stirring waves to a halt. Every ship’s captain must be doing the same, for Skylan could hear muted horn calls, while voices, muffled by the fog, shouted orders. The last he had seen of the ogres’ ships, they had been clustered together and were likely to smash into each other. Raegar’s ship was too far away for Skylan to hear anything, but he had no doubt Raegar would also be forced to stop lest he inadvertently sail into what remained of the ogre fleet.

“I’m standing near the hold,” Skylan called out to the crew. “I’m going to keep talking. Follow the sound of my voice and come to me.”

The men made their way to him. He could mark their progress by their swearing as they stumbled over the oars, barked their shins on the sea chests, or bumped into each other.

“A strange phenomenon, this fog,” Acronis observed.

“Nothing strange. Torval sent it,” said Skylan.

Acronis regarded him with good-natured amusement. “On the contrary, my friend, the fog was caused by the smoke from the fires combined with the humidity.”

The two stood practically toe-to-toe and yet they could barely see each other. The air was heavy and difficult to breathe. Skylan could feel the fog catch in his throat.

“You and I will argue about the gods when we are safely back in my homeland,” said Skylan impatiently. “Now I need your learning for more important matters, Legate-”

Acronis shook his head. “I am no longer Legate, Skylan. I am no longer your master.” He gave a wry chuckle. “You would say I never was…”

Skylan had once hated Legate Acronis as the man who had enslaved him. He had since come to honor and respect the older man as an able military commander and because they had ended up on the same side in this war, fighting the same foe. Having lost everything, Acronis had elected to bind his wyrd to Skylan and his Torgun warriors.

“You are not my master,” Skylan agreed, smiling in turn. “But you are a learned man, worthy of respect. You have made a study of ogres, sir, so Keeper told me. What do you know of their rituals for the dead?”

“I know quite a bit,” said Acronis, puzzled. “Why?”

“Because Torval sent you to me, as well,” said Skylan.

“Skylan, over here,” Aylaen called.

He made his way to her and found her clutching Wulfe by the arm. “He almost fell.”

“I was trying to talk to the oceanaids,” Wulfe said.

“Keep hold of him,” Skylan said to Aylaen. “Stay by the mast. Both of you.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“What I have to,” he said.

Aylaen silently nodded. Her face was the gray of the fog. Her green eyes and red hair seemed the only color in a gray world. She feared Wulfe was telling the truth, that Treia had poisoned Keeper. Skylan wished he could stay with her, talk to her, tell her some comforting lie. But there wasn’t time. Torval’s favor would not last forever and when the fog lifted, they had to be ready.

Led by Skylan, the Torgun warriors stumbled down the ladder that led into the hold. They had to feel their way, for the hold was dark, the mists were thick, and they couldn’t see a thing. Skylan heard a terrified gasp and a rustling and he remembered that Treia was down there somewhere.

She must be afraid we are coming after her.

He said nothing to disabuse her. Let her spend a few moments in terror. None of the others spoke to her. They had all heard Wulfe’s accusation and most probably believed it. Still, murdering the ogre was not the worst of her crimes. He had kept from his comrades the fact that Treia had summoned the Vektia dragon who had leveled a city and nearly killed them all. Skylan had kept silent not because he gave a damn about Treia. He cared about Aylaen, who cared about Treia.

The men gathered around Keeper’s body lying on the deck of the hold, shrouded in the gloom and the darkness.

“All right, we’re down here,” said Sigurd. “What do we do now?”

“We are going to honor the dead,” said Skylan. “We are going to return Keeper to his people.”

Aylaen listened to the heavy footfalls, muffled in the thick fog, clumping down the stairs into the hold. She heard the men fumbling about, bumping into each other and then, when they were quiet, Skylan stating that they were going to honor the dead. Of course, Sigurd immediately launched into an angry tirade about how Skylan was wasting time honoring a dead ogre when they should be arming for battle against live ones. Skylan patiently explained his plan. Aylaen smiled. She remembered a time when the hotheaded Skylan would have used his fists to explain. As it was, the men listened and Sigurd grumbled that it might work. Skylan asked Acronis to tell them about ogre funeral rites. Aylaen could hear the creaking of the Venjekar ’s timbers, the waves rolling beneath the keel, water dripping. In the distance, an eerie-sounding horn called from one ship to another.